


Hush

by Eligh



Series: I Fix Your Shit [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AI!Phil, Artificial Intelligence, M/M, Slice of Life, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: Snow outside, and a warm bed within.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Two posts in as many days?! The world is Coming to an End. (Or I'm cleaning out my WIP folder with some unexpected time on my hands). 
> 
> Here's an I Fix Your Shit timestamp, courtesy of Colorado winters. Set after the events of the original story, but that's all you need concern yourself with timeline-wise.

Clint stands on the roof of I Fix Your Shit house, his face tilted up toward the graying skies, his eyes narrowed. Occasionally he shivers; it’s too cold out for the thin t-shirt he’s wearing, but who would blame him? It was seventy-some degrees yesterday. And anyway, all his long sleeved shirts are wadded up in a much-procrastinated ‘to wash’ pile.

“You will catch pneumonia,” Phil chides from the ground, and Clint startles, looking down. Phil lifts an eyebrow, looking epically unimpressed in that way that only he can.  Clint crinkles up his nose affectionately; he kinda wants to smoosh Phil’s face. And seemingly reading this sentiment, Phil dials up the exasperation to a defcon level, oh, three—at least—and sighs, crossing his arms. “What are you doing on the roof, dearest?” It’s said with proper levels of sarcasm, and Clint grins at him before gesturing expansively toward the sky.

“Do those look like snow clouds to you?”

“It’s a bit early for snow,” Phil says flatly, but when Clint pouts—he’s got it down to an art, if ‘art’ implies the kind of debauchery that Phil’s inclined to get up to when presented with a theatrically moping Clint—Phil acquiesces, sighing and tilting his head back, angling toward the sky. Blue washes over his face and down his neck while Clint watches him closely, the right side of his lower lip caught unconsciously between his teeth. Phil’s reading air currents and temperature fluctuations, probably. Honestly, Clint’s not 100% on how Phil perceives the world, but he at least knows the broad strokes, and knows it’s not even close to human.

It’s one of the—too many to count, really—things he loves about Phil.

“Anything weird?” Clint asks after a moment. The blue’s swirling in slow pulses along the backs of the exposed synthaskin of Phil’s hands, mesmerizing.

Phil’s brow furrows for a moment as he lets the blue fade. “Hm,” he says. “You may be right.”

Clint lets out a quiet hiss of victory and eyes the ground next to Phil’s feet. “No,” Phil says immediately, raising a quelling hand. “Do not jump off the roof. Take the damn stairs.”

“You’re no fun,” Clint informs him, smirking. Phil just raises his eyebrows, unrepentant, and Clint, well. He just can’t help it. That freakin’ _face_. He stops fighting it and lets the smirk grow into a full-fledged grin, and retreats across the roof toward the trap door set in the center, leading into the house proper. “I’m only listening because I need to get a sweater,” he calls over his shoulder, and doesn’t miss the quiet huff of Phil’s laughter that follows him over the wall and down the ladder.

~

By three in the afternoon it’s nearly dark with the threatening blizzard. Low, fat clouds catch and hold on the tips of the mountains that flank their canyon; the world holds its breath.

Well, the world except for Tony—that man in question flails dramatically around the workshop, grousing to anyone who will listen about the sheer unfairness of early autumn _snow storms_ , he cannot even, what is the world coming to, this is _awful_ —

Dum-E, his sole audience, beeps consolingly, and in the kitchen Clint hides his grin behind a healthy gulp from a cup of chai that Bruce had unearthed from somewhere magical.

“Colorado,” Bruce says placidly as he fixes his own cup, utterly ignoring Tony’s histrionics the next room over, “has historically experienced unpredictable weather, and that’s only exacerbated by the sudden cessation of humans’ impact on the natural world. I mean, just think about the lack of us burning fossil fuels alone, and that’s not even mentioning what the impact of all those end-of-war nuclear weapons had on the environment—which they assuredly did impact—but what I’m trying to say—” and here he clunks his cup down on the table and slouches into the seat between Clint and Phil “—is that a September flurry isn’t the least out of the question.”

“Clearly,” Clint says as Tony swans into the kitchen, takes one look out the window toward where wet clumps of slushy proto-snow are starting to plop down, and lets out a groan that makes even Phil raise his eyebrows in sympathy.

“Unfair,” Tony moans, and then steals Bruce’s chai before disappearing back into the garage. Bruce blinks uncomprehendingly for a moment at the empty space on the table where his tea used to be, and then sighs resignedly and goes to fix himself another cup.

~

There’s a hush over the canyon.

Clint’s got his head resting against the windowpane of the window in their bedroom when Phil finds him, watching the snow fall and drift in the blue twilight. There’s no wind, no movement except for the steady soft accumulation, and he’s wrapped in a cocoon of blankets on the bed, nearly meditative in the sudden weird weather.

“Hey,” Phil says softly, closing the door to the bedroom behind him and cutting off the quiet sounds of Bruce and Tony shuffling around downstairs. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothin’ really,” Clint murmurs, lifting one blanket-clad arm and gesturing Phil in. He comes readily, pausing only long enough to shrug off the sweater he’s wearing before crawling across the bed and snuggling up to Clint’s side. He radiates heat like no one’s business, Clint’s own personal space heater. Clint twitches up a small smile and takes a moment to shuffle the blanket to appropriately drape over them both, and then he’s pressing close, the faint thrum of everything _Phil_ relaxing him even further. He breathes out hard and tucks his face up against Phil’s neck.

“Hey,” Phil says, a smile in his voice. “What’s bringing this on?”

Admittedly, Clint’s not usually so clingy, but he doesn’t think that Phil’s complaining. “Just,” he says, his lips brushing Phil’s neck, “it’s like the world’s on mute. Paused, kinda. It’s so quiet, it’s—” he takes a breath. “Weird and nice and I love you, you know?”

It’s sappy and Clint knows it, but Phil just smiles and presses his lips firmly into Clint’s hair, wraps his arms tight around Clint’s waist.

Clint breathes him in and watches the snow fall.

~

The only light in the room is the blue washing in waves over Phil’s body, visual representations of the sensations he’s sharing with Clint, mirrored and made near ethereal by the uncertain blanket of the heavy snow falling silently outside their window.

“I love you,” Phil gasps, hips twitching up from where he’s lying on his back in the bed. He moves with enough force to almost dislodge Clint from how he’s rocking up and down in a slow roll, one hand braced on Phil’s shoulder, one pressing hard against his chest, but Clint doesn’t mind; making Phil lose a bit of control is always enjoyable. Those peeks of the hidden strength under his chassis—it’s a rush every time.

And so he grins and digs his toes into the mattress, watching Phil’s face underneath him, spreading his fingers over the expanse of Phil’s chest, his thumb catching momentarily on one of the miniscule seams that track all over Phil’s body. There’s the jagged scar, too, far bigger than any factory weld, on the synthaskin right over where Clint knows one of Phil’s regulatory processors sits, and he shifts his hand, covering it with his palm.

If Phil had been human, Clint’s pretty sure he wouldn’t like that scar, because something that big—something that clearly awful, that reminder of violence—it would’ve meant that he came close to losing Phil before they even met. But—and it’s impossible to mistake this—Phil’s _not_ human, and Clint’s—well.

That scar means something, because if Phil hadn’t been damaged, he probably wouldn’t have Searched out humans for help with his repair. And if Phil hadn’t Searched out humans, they wouldn’t have met, and Phil wouldn’t have his true freedom of choice and they wouldn’t have their little family surviving in this canyon and Clint wouldn’t have the best thing in his life here in his bed.

So yeah. Clint fucking _loves_ that scar.

“You’re,” Clint breathes shakily, the urge to impart this revelation suddenly too strong to ignore, “you’re the best thing to ever happen to me, Phil. You’re—oh, oh god—”

Phil sits up, shifting Clint in his lap easily and causing Clint to gasp at the sensation, the drag and slide and heat of Phil inside him, and wraps his arms around Clint’s back, pulling him in so their chests touch, so they can kiss long and slow and deep. “Please don’t,” Clint mutters into his mouth, grabbing tight and laughing softly when Phil starts to pull away, confused. Clint shakes his head, smiling, his eyes closed, though he can see the blue radiating from Phil processing his weird humanness even through his eyelids. “No, I mean—hell, don’t stop _moving_ , shit—don’t stop.” He kisses Phil again. “Don’t ever stop.”

“Oh,” Phil chuckles lowly, any tension evaporating. He snaps his hips; Clint tilts his head back and rides him though it, pleased and punch-happy and loved, the blankets rucked up around the two of them. “I’m right here,” Phil says, the faint sounds of his processors working under his skin a promise that Clint’ll take in a heartbeat. He reaches between them, and whispers Clint’s name.

Outside, the snow falls.

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up in the desert, and didn't see snow until I was well into my twenties; I'm fascinated with it now. Not driving in it ::shudder:: or being out in it, really, but sitting inside, wrapped up in a blanket with my partner, some tea, watching the snow fall. I'm always amazed by how quiet it can make the world, how ethereal. I still don't like snow as much as I do the desert after a thunderstorm, but it's a close second.


End file.
